


Your tongue upon my scars

by Anonymous



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Half-Sibling Incest, Knifeplay, M/M, Marking, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Scars, Sex in a Smithy, Switching, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:33:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6365047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>Fingolfin wants to make Fëanor pay for the burning of the ships in his very own way. Canon divergence AU for Fëanor being still alive when Fingolfin and his followers reach Beleriand.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Written for SmutSwap2016</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your tongue upon my scars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).



> Thank you, [thegreatpumpkin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin) for beta-reading this fic for me.

_Dein Glanz erwärmt mein Innerstes,_  
_Dein Feuer lässt mich frieren,_  
_Was hinter Deinen Augen liegt,_  
_Es wundert mich zu Tode!_  
_Der Tau an Deinen Lippen soll die meinigen verzieren!“_  
_Und durch das Dunkel hallt es:_  
_Vernunft ist nichts! Gefühl ist alles!_

Samsas Traum – Thanathan und Athanasia

 

 

*

**Your tongue upon my scars**

*****

*

Many days ago trumpets had sounded in the far distance, and soon rumors about how his half-brother had reached these lands after a straining and perilous journey across the Grinding Ice reached his ear; Fëanáro hadn’t believed the gossip and until now, nobody had ever come for him. Not Ñolofinwë – nor his eldest in search for Nelyafinwë, and for that Fëanáro was grateful as he was busy with everything as it was already. He did not need yet another quarrel bothering him.

After long months of hardship, Fëanáro and his followers had finally established a small settlement with houses made of stones and bricks to shield them from the weather’s temper. They had not even tried to mimic Tirion’s riches during the construction of the settlement, with functionality and safety being the most important features – at least for now. They had built stables and storehouses for supplies, and – of course – a forge which was located close to Fëanáro’s own house. Day and night the fires roared and consumed the ancient wood, and soon Fëanáro had established a daily routine. Often, Curufinwë could be found in his presence, resembling him in the frantic eagerness; sometimes even young _Telperinquar_ , who already showed a high interest in craftsmanship, joined them.

This day, however, Fëanáro was alone in the forge, deeply occupied with his current project.

From outside surprised muttering among his sons reached his ear but Fëanáro, being obsessively occupied with the forging of new knives, did not pay the chatter any attention; after all, it wasn’t so unusual among his children and the sound of trumpets was already long forgotten. Briefly he looked up from his current project, but all too soon his attention was back on the raw blade in his hand which still lacked the perfect balance.

Five pieces of deadly shaped metal were already neatly laid out on the small table beside his workplace, one knife for each son as the lands were dangerous and many weapons were lost when Ulmo’s temper had flared during their journey. The blades flashed in the gleam of the light; dangerous and threatening, crafted with skill and love, yet missing the delicacy and rich adornments with precious gems that had been so typical of his work.

By the time the door slid open, Fëanáro was so deeply lost in thoughts that the world could have fallen apart before his eyes and he wouldn’t have noticed. Neither did he notice his half-brother stride across the room towards where he stood, golden flames catching themselves in his face and hair.

“What were you even thinking, burning the ships?” hissed Ñolofinwë, and before Fëanáro could vocally respond one of his knives was in Ñolofinwë’s hand. Shortly after, the flashing blade was pressed against his throat, not yet hard enough to draw blood but close to it.

In surprise, Fëanáro’s eyes widened. He hadn’t expected such a bold movement from him, not even remotely. But then, as he began to study Ñolofinwë’s face, he had to admit that this wasn’t the half-brother he had left behind on the distant shores; there was a hard edge to his features that certainly wasn’t there before they parted, eyes keen and observing, narrowed to slits as he awaited a reply. A little to his shame Fëanáro was frightened, but not terrified, even if Ñolofinwë had every reason to kill him. Surely his half-brother would never do such a thing, would he? After seeing the flash of anger in Ñolofinwë’s eyes he wasn’t so certain anymore.

“Not much honestly,” at last Fëanáro said with a smug smirk. It was the truth. He hadn’t thought much that night when searing flames consumed the stolen ships.

Ñolofinwë raised an eyebrow at him. “As always,” he stated with pity and resentment, shaking his head in dismay. When Fëanáro remained silent, he pressed the knife harder against his brother’s throat until Fëanáro felt his skin break slightly under the pressure and cried out in surprise and pain.

The scene was odd – at best. Usually it was him wielding the knife, usually it was him who was in command, who held power over his half-brother (that was at least what Fëanáro thought, even if all too often Ñolofinwë had corrupted him); the blade wandered further down Fëanáro’s throat.

“These blades – what are they for?” asked Ñolofinwë with a certain curiosity.

“Nothing of your concern,” snapped Fëanáro. It was a warning, one Ñolofinwë deliberately ignored.

“A pity.”

Ñolofinwë caught him completely off guard; strong hands, adorned with battle and frostbite scars, grabbed him firmly at the wrist before he could get away a single inch, and all he could do was to follow his half-brother’s motions until the wall prevented him from going any further. He struggled – of course he did – but futilely so as Ñolofinwë’s grip was unrelenting and the sharp edge of the knife still neatly pressed against his throat.

“Many said I should kill you,” mused Ñolofinwë, watching him closely. Fëanáro’s hands clenched into fists, revealing that oh so familiar anger; it was the rush of power that Ñolofinwë craved, the exhilarating highs of supremacy Fëanáro knew so well himself. Perhaps, after all, they weren’t so unlike each other, though Ñolofinwë had hidden this side of him so well throughout their lives. “But why should I when there are so many other ways to make you pay for what you have done?”

Fëanáro glared at him, all the more when Ñolofinwë’s delighted smirk met is own gaze. _‘Such insane mockery!’_ He thought, and in anger and discomfort he struggled against the hold, trying to twist away from the wall and his half-brother’s body. He didn’t succeed.

“What do you want?” snapped Fëanáro, yet Ñolofinwë remained silent. Instead of speaking, he watched with amusement the way Fëanáro’s expression transformed into one of real fear, a weakness that simultaneously sparked his anger. Deep inside Fëanáro knew already what he wanted, and soon enough brutal affirmation came in the shape of a worn-out riding boot that forced his legs wide apart.

“Let go of me,” demanded Fëanáro sharply. No, he wasn’t in the mood to play along.

“Keep still,” Ñolofinwë hissed, giving his brother a look of horrifying appreciation.

Fëanáro didn’t oblige. Naturally.

Resentment glimmered in his eyes, and despite his will he found himself under the scrutiny of Ñolofinwë’s attention; soon, his half-brother’s fingers dug into his chin so hard that Fëanáro thought his bones would break. Ñolofinwë leaned in, his lips so maddeningly close against his skin but not yet touching; of course Fëanáro would never admit that he had craved his half-brother’s touch on so many lonely nights when indeed he had – more often than not. At last, Ñolofinwë’s teeth raked over the shell of his ear, breath brushing against the wet skin until Fëanáro shivered. And as he did so, the blade ran across Fëanáro’s tunic, slicing it in two parts until his chest lay bare. Hungry eyes met his own and soon Ñolofinwë’s fingers roamed across his exposed chest, leaving a shiver in their wake. His eyes were telling, Fëanáro thought in silence, admiring his flawed skin as if it was a precious tapestry made to be appreciated. When his fingertips reached one of the scars Morgoth’s foul creatures had left behind, he hesitated for a moment, searching for Fëanáro’s gaze.

“Who marred you?” There was curiosity as well as pity in Ñolofinwë’s voice and Fëanáro knew all too well why that was; his half-brother had always adored his perfect, unscarred skin.

“An unnamed orc,” said Fëanáro, feigning disinterest although he was curious himself if his half-brother bore marks of their mutual foe already. In the dim light of the furnace the dagger in Ñolofinwë’s hand glowed golden, and briefly Fëanáro reveled with delight in the beauty of his creation.

“You wouldn’t mind?” asked Ñolofinwë, pressing the tip of the blade down next to Fëanáro’s navel, still not hard enough to draw blood.

“What?” snapped Fëanáro, eyes wide in disbelief before all other words drowned in his sharp cry of agony bleeding from his lips. He felt his muscles shift under Ñolofinwë’s assault – Ñolofinwë who watched him with narrowed eyes and a smug smirk that so much mimicked his own.

“It occurs to me that you need a reminder of what we share, dearest brother.” As he spoke he let the blade wander across Fëanáro’s skin, carving and wiping away the droplets of blood in alternation as he carved his initials into his brother’s skin.

With horror – and sordid longing – alike, Fëanáro looked downwards as with brief delay pain sang along his nerves as his skin split and a thin line of scarlet drops adorned his groin. Ñolofinwë looked like an artist, Fëanáro thought involuntarily: focused; eyebrows furrowed; licking along his lips in absolute concentration.

_‘Valar forbid, he is stunningly beautiful.’_

Never before had Fëanáro realized that the beauty of Finwë — and himself — was also shared by Ñolofinwë. Every break of skin was accompanied by a sharp intake of breath, a curse and futile struggling from Fëanáro’s side whilst Ñolofinwë remained deadly calm. As if the bloody mark – his half-brother’s name carved into his skin for the rest of his immortal life – was not enough already, Ñolofinwë lined up the blade again, this time against his chest, dangerously close to his nipples.

Fëanáro bit back a sharp cry of agony as he felt his muscles shift under the assault of the blade. The howl died in his throat, unuttered, when Ñolofinwë at last sealed his lips with his own, apparently satisfied with the result, questing, demanding, pouring emotions too long bottled up into the kiss

In this moment, all of Fëanáro’s dreams, all of his desires were crushed fiercely as he found himself completely at his brother’s mercy – and took great delight in it. Perhaps this was exactly what Ñolofinwë wanted, perhaps it was not. Most likely Fëanáro would never find it out (not that it mattered too much right now).

“Enough,” muttered Ñolofinwë against his lips, rather to himself. Actually, Fëanáro wasn’t so certain of what he was speaking; all he knew was that his half-brother’s cock pressed against his thigh – hard and hot and urgent, a need not so different from his own. Before he could think of anything else, the lacings of his breeches came undone and the garment soon pooled around his ankles.

“Lovely,” stated Ñolofinwë.

Fëanáro tensed as Ñolofinwë’s hands sneaked around his waist and wandered their way down to his arse, their backs scraping along the wall. There was certainly something naughty, something demanding about the way his half-brother cupped his buttocks firmly, and immediately Fëanáro found himself swearing. And begging for more at the same time. Indeed, he had never thought to be in such a position ever again, last of it with his half-brother whom he had left behind on the distant shores; despite the oddity of the situation he craved his touch like a madman.

Of his own volition, Fëanáro arched his back, pushing down slightly into the finger that demanded access. There was no gentleness when Ñolofinwë’s index finger started to push inside him; he’d presumably licked them before, for it slid into Fëanáro’s body easily.

But what was one finger, even three, against his brother’s cock?

At one point, when Ñolofinwë scissored him open, Fëanáro cried out in pain and pleasure alike with his trapped body shaking uncontrolled against the wall. Well, it had been a good while since last he had been fucked.

Only then, when Ñolofinwë’s fingers were buried deep inside him it suddenly occurred to him that they were in public as certainly the door was still unlocked. Even if night had already begun to set, there was a chance of them being disturbed. Briefly, terror seized Fëanáro; being discovered in such a disheveled state by Curufinwë would result in drama, but then, Ñolofinwë’s fingers thrusting in and out with such an urgent haste felt too delicious to take precautions. It was worth the risk, Fëanáro decided at last, scratching along his half-brother’s back with his nails. It was as if Ñolofinwë could read his thoughts, as not a second later he withdrew his fingers and freed his cock at last, hard and ready, with pre-cum adorning its tip. In fascination and anticipation, Fëanáro stared downwards, parting his legs even further. No, he most likely wasn’t sufficiently prepared, wasn’t ready for what was about to come, but being patient in high states of excitement had never been his biggest strength.

In lieu of proper lubricant Ñolofinwë simply spat into his palm and quickly slicked himself with a few strokes.

“Savage,” Fëanáro muttered under his breath.

In response, Ñolofinwë allowed his hand to wander over Fëanáro’s erection. “You seem rather keen to discover that side of mine,” he whispered with a dazzling smile.

The comment certainly hit its mark, although Fëanáro would never admit it openly – nor would he admit that he had indeed missed their clandestine encounters; despite the tension between them, or – because of the tension between them – their sex had always been gloriously hot and strangely satisfying.

With a strength Fëanáro hadn’t expected after the proclaimed hardship, Ñolofinwë lifted him upwards against the wall, his legs automatically sneaking around his half-brother’s waist, body trapped between the wall and Ñolofinwë’s clothed chest. It certainly wasn’t the most comfortable position they had ever fucked in, and given Ñolofinwë’s eagerness, once it was over welts from the rough bricks would adorn his back.

He couldn’t care less – if Ñolofinwë just would fuck him already.

Impatiently he writhed against him, at least, as much as his position allowed it, urging his half-brother to continue. Obviously, Ñolofinwë took great delight in the wanton sight he presented, robbed off all dignity and decorum forgotten. For once it was only them who mattered, their mutual desires and lust.

“Ready for me?” asked Ñolofinwë, a smile playing on his lips.

Fëanáro groaned his agreement.

His muscles were taut, tendons tight from the effort to keep his composure at least a bit when Ñolofinwë’s cock entered him. Fëanáro felt like crying out, which – of course – he didn’t; he wouldn’t show his inability to deal with pain when his half-brother’s cock burnt inside him, nor would he dare to ask for gentleness when everything on his mind was savage and filthy. Gladly, their ideas seemed to match as there was nothing gentle in the way Ñolofinwë began to fuck him. Despite the initial pain which still made his vision blur and his eyelids flutter, at the end Fëanáro’s lustful instinct to bite his brother, to mark him as his, won out. Without complaint Ñolofinwë allowed it – he only fucked him all the harder until Fëanáro sighed against the marred skin. Neither of them held back this time as too long they had been apart, dissolving in the waves of pleasure only they could bring to each other.

“Eru, you look beautiful once you’ve had the arrogance fucked off your face,” said Ñolofinwë through groans, shifting Fëanáro’s legs up higher to change the angle.

“Shut up.”

Ñolofinwë obliged.

Clotted blood mingled with sweat on their chests and the smell of arousal twined with the characteristic notes of burnt peat and molten metal as they rutted together, fingers entangled in each other’s hair, teeth sunk into bruised lips until no air seemed to be left in their lungs.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway that lead towards Fëanáro’s forge and momentarily, they stilled their movements, looking at the other with childish amusement. They had been reasonably quiet despite their roughness, Fëanáro mostly because he had his face buried in Ñolofinwë’s neck, sucking or biting, whereas Ñolofinwë preferred to bite his own tongue. Still, the chance of being discovered was existent and a mutual sigh fell from their lips when padding footsteps diminished shortly after. Still, the unexpected thrill pushed them towards completely different heights, and surely they wouldn’t last long if Ñolofinwë kept his insane pace.

Fëanáro’s hips bucked again as his Ñolofinwë’s lips moved down, latching onto the skin at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, sucking and biting hard. A treacherous passion mark would bloom in a few hours, so prominent and exposed for all to see. In silence, Fëanáro cursed – and moaned vocally, much to his half-brother’s delight as he persistently kept fucking him. Maddeningly and deliciously alike. His own eyes were half-closed, mouth hanging agape when moan after moan tumbled from his lips.

“Use me,” Fëanáro whispered despite himself, his words seeming to come not from his own mind. “Make me pay for everything I’ve done, for all the wrongs I have committed.”

Ñolofinwë’s quirked eyebrow of disbelief went unnoticed as Fëanáro’s eyes were now completely closed. Yet he obliged.

Fucking him hard against the wall, Ñolofinwë slipped a hand between them, rubbing Fëanáro’s cock in the same rhythm as he fucked his arse; hard, and fast, and urgent until Fëanáro couldn’t distinguish up from down any more. Never had he imagined that Ñolofinwë could be so relentless, so unforgiving, bringing him close to the edge again and again until Fëanáro’s body grew weak and he was glad that he was trapped between his half-brother’s body and the wall. Helplessly, he clutched to Ñolofinwë’s shoulders in a futile attempt to steady himself, when all he wished for was to fall into oblivion together with him. Fëanáro closed his eyes, intoxicated by the way his brother’s cock felt inside him, the way he tasted when all he saw was blackness.

“Brother–” he whispered against Ñolofinwë’s lips, before the rest drowned out in a cry of pleasure, and he was silenced by a searing kiss not a moment later.

“I missed that – and I missed you,” mumbled Ñolofinwë against his lips once they broke apart.

And while Fëanáro wished to snap back something sarcastic, he found himself unable to with Ñolofinwë’s cock feeling so wonderful inside him.

 _‘Such sentiment,’_ Fëanáro thought, but the words remained unsaid, and soon the sentiment was all but forgotten when Ñolofinwë licked along the scar that ran from his left shoulder down to his side.

For seconds they breathed together, being one person, being connected in such an intimate way again, just as it had been before Fëanáro had burnt the ships in blinding rage. Ñolofinwë lifted his head and kissed him hard and breathless, at last granting his brother the sweet bliss of oblivion. Fëanáro’s breath was coming harder with every second that passed, short, muffled grunts that matched Ñolofinwë’s in intensity; he was sore already, still persistently his brother pounded into him with a brutal pace, so hard and rough that stars began to explode in his mind. All he felt was the warmth and urgent need of Ñolofinwë’s cock inside him, his warm lips against his mouth, his tongue questing and demanding, and fingers so skilled stroking him; after many moments of blissful torture, at last Fëanáro came with a sharp cry which was swallowed by his brother’s eager mouth whilst his body throbbed and quivered uncontrolled against the wall and Ñolofinwë’s body, his seed staining the tunic his brother still wore.

_Fuck._

He couldn’t remember when last he had reached an orgasm **_that_** intense. Indeed Fëanáro felt as if all strength had left his body and if it hadn’t been for Ñolofinwë’s body supporting him, he would have tumbled onto the floor like a rotten leaf. Through the fresh veil of post-orgasmic haze he heard Ñolofinwë sigh, a puff of hot breath against his collar-bone and a mumbled adoration he didn’t completely understand before his brother’s body tensed and warm seed filled him.

When at last the blissful waves of climax ebbed, they sank down onto the floor, exhausted and wasted, gasping for air like fish on the shores and for the first time something like gentleness existed between them as Ñolofinwë cupped Fëanáro’s face, whispering: “I truly have missed you – and so have you missed me,” before he kissed him.

This time, Fëanáro indeed remained silent and for once simply accepted his brother’s closeness as their fingers twined.

*

 

**Author's Note:**

> Dear linndechir (and everybody who got so far), I hope you have enjoyed this little story and the inserted kinks.


End file.
